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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



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REULLURA 



A BOOK OK F»OB]VIS 



BY, 

LYDIA STARR McPHERSON 



AUTHOR'S EDITION 



I 
BUFFALO J $*^/ 2- 



CHARLES WELLS MOULTON 
1892 



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Copyright, 1892, 

By l. s. Mcpherson. 



Printed by C. W. Moulton, Buffalo, N. Y. 



DEDICATED TO MY SONS. 



PREFACE. 

Make fair the sculptured stone; 

Chisel the cup; the thorn wreath place 

Above the agony of Love's dyi7ig face; 

But let tlie lifted eyes ashine 

Reflect the glory of the star divhie; 

And drop from lids that never close, 

Tears, fragrajit as the dew of Sharon's rose, 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Respectfully Addressed to Eliphaz, Bildad and Zophar . i 

Lore of the Stars 4 

The March of Time 5 

Vino Du Cceur 6 

Twilight Musing 8 

Life's Perfect Hour ' - 8 

Judge Not lo 

As in a dream ii 

A Night on the Deep 1 1 

One Little Word 12 

Ararat ^4 

Peace,— be Still i5 

In Coelo Quies ^7 

Over All 18 

For my Love's Sake 20 

Sierra Nevada 22 

The Texas China Tree . 23 

Dreams by the Pacific 25 

A Dengue Dream 27 

Des Moines — Queen of the West 28 

A Wreath of Immortels 3i 

A Fancy 32 

Violets 33 

A Winter Day 34 

Ennui 3^ 

Promise Buds 3^ 

The First Robin of Spring— 1870 37 



viii Contents. 

The True Poet 39 

Myriam 40 

Ashes of Roses 41 

In Dream To-night 43 

A Night on Samarkand 44 

Life's Lesson 45 

My Dream of Thee 46 

The Nun 47 

Can Fortune's Frown rob Innocence of joy? 48 

The Dew Plant 49 

Parted 50 

Since Thou art gone 52 

The Play of Ages 53 

Don't Bother 55 

Gordon of Khartoum 57 

An Answer 58 

An Autumn Leaf 60 

A Prophecy 61 

December 63 

Morning 64 

" A Rose from the Field of Atlanta " 66 

Autumn 68 

One Night 69 

Died 71 

Written on Hearing of the Assasination of President 

Lincoln 72 

Our Darling is Dead 74 

Lines on the death of Mrs. Molly Lankford 75 

Lines on the Monument Erected to the Memory of 

Edgar A. Poe 76 

Lines Written on the death of Mrs. R. Marschalk ... 77 

Lines on the death of 79 

Baby Mary is Dead 81 



Contents. ix 

Mars, the God of War 83 

Paint it Red 83 

The Sibyl's Dream Came True ; 85 

The Bible Class was Scandalized 88 

Satan appeared Also 9^ 

A Disgusted Patriot 93 

Two Reasons 94 

Beautiful Star 95 



REULLURA, 



RESPECTFULLY ADDRESSED TO 

ELIPHAZ, BILDAD AND 

ZOPHAR. 

'T^WAS on a day of bloom and shine, 
1 E'er life had reached its royal prime, 
Or I had summer's ripeness gained, 
I stood, where sunk a summer day, 
In winey-waves, and golden spray, 
With one, who oft my heart had pained. 

A friend ? Ah, me! like those of old 
Who came to comfort and to scold 

The suffering man of Uz; 
She said **the heaviest heads of grain 
Are always ruined by the rain. 

Or smitten by the rust. 

** Take heed! remember what I say. 
You're flinging your short life away 

In worse than idle dreams. 
Too short the arm that grasps for fame, 
You'll only win a scribbler's name, 

To fade like yonder beams. 



Reullura, 

* * I know how shines the distant goal, 
How thrills the eager panting soul, 

Reckless of mortal pain. 
Throw down your pen and musty lore 
And step into life's open door. 

Your path is very plain." 

I half believed my friend was right, 
Although my faith eclipsed the light 

Of hope within my heart; 
Alone, I cried, O hapless mortal! 
Flung backward from fame's open portal, 

Of earth, nor heaven a part! 

What will you now, the die is cast, 
And all your happy dreams are past ? 

I'll call the angels in, I said, 
And say adieu before we part, 
Or make them watches in the heart, 

Where poesy lies dead. 

Like the Hesperides of old. 

Who watched the mythic fruit of gold, 

They came at early twilight's knell; 
To one I gave my withered crown, 
Another claimed my late renown, 

My sandal-shoon and shell. 



A Book of Poems. 

And my divining rod I gave 
Back to the god of love, to save 

For mightier hands than mine; 
Like Vulcan, by the gods discrowned. 
Hurled headlong, from enchanted ground. 

To regions less divine, 

I waked as from a fevered dream, 
Into a world of song and sheen, 

A land unknown before; 
New forms and faces met me there 
And hailed me Eurynome's heir, 

A nameless waif no more. 

Now, while my future life I limn. 
Aid me to sing a happy hymn, 

I said, to Mnemosyne; 
Up rose my angel then and there, 
And helped me sing, not of despair, 

But hope's eternal spring. 

We sang and sang, and still we sing. 
For hope flows from an endless spring. 

Though all things else run dry; 
My friend, my dear Shuhight of old, 
Who came to comfort and to scold, 

My Bildad dear, good bye! 



Reullut Uy 

And when we meet again I pray, 
My arch diviner, please to say. 

Though fame's eternal wreath may fail, 
If never heavy head of grain, 
Grown golden on the sunny plain, 

Comes to the threshers flail. 



LORE OF THE STARS. 

SINCE the Star of the East over Bethlehem hung. 
While the triumph of Peace over vengeance was 
sung, 
The lore of the stars and the god-peopled world, 
With temples and shrines to the wind have beenhurled; 
The bats find a home in the eye holes of kings. 
Whom the world's greatest bard in his lUiad sings; 
And silver-tongued Memnon dismembered low lies, 
With marble lips turned to the pitiless skies. 

The temples are fallen, a covert for moles; 

The cubs of the wolf and the basalisks holds, 

The gods of the air and the Muses have fled; 

Priests and people are gone and the prophets are dead; 

The altars o'er grown with thorns and wild briars. 

Are lighted no longer by vestal-kept fires; 

But the stars in their courses sway man as of old, 

When the birthplace of Christ to the Magi was told. 



A Book of Poems. 



THE MARCH OF TIME. 

IN ALL the past was there a creed, 
However formed by wisdom, cunning, art, 
But like the morning primrose bloomed a day. 
And then fell lifeless from the social heart ? 

Look backward through six thousand years! 

The way is littered with dead codes and creeds; 
And shapeless things once deemed immortal truths, 

Lie heaped in ruins, with man's blundering deeds. 

The morals, laws and customs of a nation change 
Beneath the revelations of a single day, 

When some new truth breaks on the world, 
Sweeping the pillars of the past away. 

Campania with her princes, priests and bards; 

Rome with her tyrants, and her courts of crime; 
Nineveh, Babylon, Atlanta, where are they ? 

Sunk 'neath the gurgling waves of Time. 

The prophets, the inspired bards of old, 
An Alexander's and a Caesar's throne. 

The martyrs crying victory o'er the faggot's flame, 
And worshipers of Dagon, all are gone. 



6 Reullura, 

But down the everglades of time, the song, 
The prophecy, the cry of victory rings, — 

Immortal echoes, borne through endless years, 
On something stronger than an angel's wings. 

Time's waves still break upon a soundless shore; 

The past is dead, the future still unborn; 
Our hands reach through the darkness and the night. 

If hapily our finger tips may touch the morn. 



VINO DU CCEUR. 

RED runs the wine from bruised vine; 
Quaff and laugh — heigh-ho! heigh-ho! 
A health in such a cup as this, 
Even to your dearest foe! 

As little think the idle ones, 
> Who turn the lettered page, 
Whose heart was crushed when love's red wine, 
That ripens with the age, 

Was poured firom living wells of flame, 

A sparkling tide to music given, 
And life full as the river seen 

In the apocalypse of Heaven, 



A Book of Poems. 

I hear Lebanon's cedars sigh, 
Rocked by November's breeze, 

That tries anon, its powers upon 
The fig and olive leaves. 

The old-time green by prophets seen, 
And Carmel's sea- washed base; 

They move me not as the sad sign. 
Of love and sorrow's tender trace. 

The blood-stained steep of Calvary, 
Love's monument through all the years, 

Long as the stars of night arise. 

To view themselves in Cedrons tears. 

Who cares for purple clusters crushed. 
For hearts red ruth, in letters found ? 

Drink, drink, heigh-ho! heigh-ho! 

Vino du coeur, pass the vintage round! 

Red runs the wine from broken vine, — 
Quaff, quaff and laugh, — heigh-ho! 

Heigh-ho! we neither care nor know, 
From whence the purple goblets flow! 



Reullura, 



TWILIGHT MUSING. 

OSTAR, so passionless and calm, 
, And I, so tempest driven! 
You breathe the night's unbounded balm, 
That touches earth and heaven. 

I grieve that peace like thine 

Was only made for thee, — 
That stars were made to shine. 

And tears were made for me. 



LIFE'S PERFECT HOUR. 

BETWEEN the days of calms and storms 
Are there no intervening hours, 
Sweet evening airs and tender tears, 
That fall on the unfolding flowers, 
When for a time, earth's voices cease, 
And nature rests in holy peace ? 



A Book of Poems. 

Night gives us quietude and stars; 

So like to death the silence seems, 
We scarce would know the difference, 

Except, for troubled dreams. 
But 'twixt the daylight and the dark, 
The evening sails her golden bark. 

Are all our castles built in air. 

Our dear ideals idle things, 
Born only to depart like moths, 

On scorched and shriveled wings ? 
O, heavenly minded! when and where 
Comes the sweet answer to your prayer ? 

We trust in The Almighty one, 

Whose word is given to all who weep; 

We know not when we will be blessed. 
But know that God his word will keep; 

The heart must have its happy hours. 

As Nature hath its time of flowers. 



lo Reullura, 



JUDGE NOT. 
"Judge not that ye be not judged." Matthew 7:1. 

IF a man might judge his fellow-man 
And seal his fate for weal or woe, 
Why, man by man, the world were lost, 
There's not a soul to heaven would go. 

Then life would only be a curse 
And time would be a tide of sin; 

Well might the ledger then be closed 
And Gabriel call the angels in. 

But, man by man, the world's not lost 
And life and time are blessings still, 

For man's salvation never waits 
Upon his brother's wish or will. 



A Book of Poems. 1 1 



AS IN A DREAM. 

AS in a dream, the clouds go by, 
And sunshine fills the purple sky; 
The storm we feared would wreck our flowers, 
Descends elsewhere in lifeful showers 
And leaves us parched, athirst, alas! 
To pray for rain when it is past. 

As in a dream, when heaven is near. 
We doubt and tremble, hope and fear; 
And halting, linger till the waves 
Of time bear us to silent graves. 
As in a play the curtains fall. 
And life is ended, dreams and all. 



A NIGHT ON THE DEEP. 

NOW while the wild winds are raving, 
I dream of a night on the deep, 
Of a tempest- tossed ship on the waters, 
And the Lprd in the hold fast asleep; 



1 2 Reullura^ 

Of a cry going out on the tempest, 
"Save Lord, or we perish! O, see 

The waves rush over the ship-board. 
We sink in the trough of the sea!" 

Then, behold on the billows, another; 

A ship in the midst of of the deep, 
And the Lord out alone on the water, 

With a poor sinking Peter to keep. 
Ah me! I am worse than a Peter, 

Alone on life's sea in the night, 
I am treading the tremulous billows, 

And master and ship out of sight. 



ONE LITTLE WORD. 

WHO thought while trembling on the tongue, 
What thrilling joy it might impart ? 
How it like precious drops of balm 
Might heal a broken heart; 

Who knew that it was Heaven's supply 
To one who might without it die ? 



A Book of Poems. 13 

Who thought one Httle word might prove 

A dagger to some loving heart, 
That earth's physicians ne'er could heal 
With all their potent skill and art? 

Who knew a word the tongue could tell 
Might prove another's heaven or hell ? 

Who thought one little word might have 

In it a strange mysterious spell 
To bind some heart, and breathe o'er it 
A flame fore'er unquenchable ? 

Who knew it might become a chain 
That never could be broke again ? 

Who thought one little word unsaid 

Might leave some heart to break alone, 
Some eye to weep in solitude 

To all but heavenly love unknown ? 

Who knew that life and death might rest 
On words unsaid, or words expressed ? 

Who thought one little word might turn 

The tides of battle and of fate; 
Might win a conquerer's crown and throne 
And clothe in regal robes of state ? 
Who knew that littie word unsaid 
Might lay a million with the dead ? 



14 Reullura^ 

Who thought one little word of prayer 

By earnest living faith upborne, 
Might win in Heaven as bright a crown 
As e'er by saint or seraph worn ? 
Who knew the soul's eternal all 
Might rest upon a thing so small ? 



ARARAT. 

MY heart has never found its ararat, 
Where it could rest secure and safe, 
Above the booming billows of despair 
That ever round it rave and break; 
On time's wide sea, storm driven, 
It hath no Pharos but the stars of Heaven. 

Though from its window oft hath flown 
The dove, in search of peace and rest, 

No olive branch hath e'er been borne, 

Emblem of peace to blossom in my breast; 

Vainly I strain my eyes across the sea. 

Pleading the weary dove's return to me. 



A Book of Poems. 15 

Swift runs the tide; darkness is on the deep; 

Drifting alone, O, heart alone! 
No star shines through the night; 

Beneath, the swirling waters moan. 
Surely thy forty days are nearly past, 
And we shall touch the mount of rest at last. 

Spanned by the bow-heaven's signet ring, 
A pledge of rest when storms are o'er, 

A promise that the restless waves shall blight 
And baffle the fond heart's hopes no more; 

The deluge past, let one day's rest be given. 

Between earth's sorrows and the joys of Heaven. 



PEACE,— BE STILL! 

I HAVE no muse to inspire my pen 
As had the demi-gods of Greece, 
Who wrote immortal praise of men 
And lauded war instead of peace. 

Still echoes from the old times keep 
My sighing heart in tender tune, 

As through the winter's frozen deep 
The seed may feel the suns of June. 



1 6 Reullura^ 

The hearth is overgrown with moss; 

The altar fires in ashes cold; 
My heart is sore with loss and cross, 

Yet glows my youth's eternal gold. 

The sweetest things to mortals given, 
The god-like gifts debased in clay, 

When time the outer shell hath riven, 
Unfold like flowers a summer day. 

I fear no more the shadows deep 

Cast by Death's dark and awful wing; 

I shall lie down and sweetiy sleep 

And wake where Truth's evangels sing. 

For where the storm wild billows beat 
On other shores than Galilee, 

Love walks with strong unfaltering feet 
To save the shipwrecked on life's sea. 



A Book of Poems. 17 



IN CCELO QUIES. 

THEY sleep well who wake no more 
To weep through nights of pain, 
Nor would we call the dearest back 
To tread life's paths again. 

The bitterest pangs the heart can know, 

Hushed to eternal rest. 
No longer smite the strings of life, 

That trembled in the breast. 

But sweetly blooms the flower of peace 

From ashes of the form. 
That swayed beneath the cruel scourge. 

When it with life was warm. 

Saved from the anguish and despair 

Of hope forever dead. 
Love wreaths its tenderest memories 

Around the mouldering head. 

The love that gained no answer here 

Is answered now in tears, 
And treasured as life's dearest gift 

Through the succeeding year. 



1 8 Reullura^ 

The homage vainly sought in Ufa 

Is given in death alone, 
And oft man's tenderest vows are paid 

In finely chiselled stone. 

They sweetest sleep who never wake 
To watch and weep and wait, 

For those whose precious promises 
Are all fulfilled too late. 

No marble cherub's tears of stone 
That seem for e' er to flow, 

Can break the slumber Heaven secures 
To those who sleep below. 



OVER ALL. 

SOME gold I gathered in my heart 
From summer's yellow sheaves; 
Some splendor from the purple skies, 

Some tints from autumn leaves; 
Some sweet firom the red rose's breath, 
From lilys pale, the peace of death. 



A Book of Poems. 19 

I take my tithes and ask no more 
From all that nature says or sings; 

From birds that shine and sing and soar, 
My heart hath won its upward-wings; 

Their down from tassels of the corn, 

Tinged with the splendor of the morn. 

I learned my laughter from the rills 
That gush from springs that overflow. 

Among the wild untrodden hills 

Where ferns and mountain mosses grow, 

And echoes of the water falls 

O'er nature's adamantine walls. 

My music from the silver tongues, 

The forest's fretted restless leaves. 
That yield to nature's changeful moods, 

Sing when she smiles, sigh when she grieves; 
My pathos, tears, smiles and delight. 
From changing seasons, day and night. 

Life's burdens, crosses, griefs and tears 
In Love's clear light transfigured lie, 

As Moses and Elias's robes. 

Shown when the Christ of earth was nigh, 

And Tabor trembling to its base 

Echoed the great All Father's grace, 



20 Reullura, 

The past is dead! its hopes and fears 
Rest in a grave both wide and long; 

The Heavens are blue above my head; 
I hear thy new-born morning's song; 

One garland for the dead! Good bye, — I go! 

Whither, I ask not now to know. 

For every way is full of light. 

Of hfe, of hope, and bursting bloom. 

Of death, of storms, and starless nights, 
Clear from the cradle to the tomb; 

But over all the light of heaven. 

Falls softer than the dew of even. 



FOR MY LOVE'S SAKE. 

FOR my love's sake I could have drawn 
A picture of Jove's true-love skies, 
Given to the canvass light and shade. 
And all the rainbow's brillant dyes; 
No graceful line in Beautie's form. 
But I had touched with colors warm. 



A Book of Poems. 21 

For my love's sake, I could have played 

With music, as the wild winds toy 
With Nature's trembling cords and keys, 

And all its stops and swells employ; 
I could have made my life sublime, 

Half-sister to the favored nine. 

For my love's sake I could have risen 

High as this world's exalted few; 
Drawn inspirations from the clouds. 

Storm, thunder, or a drop of dew, 
A violet bathed in morning light. 

Or starry splendor of the night. 

I could have hewn from Italy's hills 

A model of the sculptor's art; 
A Juno's grace, Apollo's strength, 

A god in all except the heart; 
Have won from fanes of ancient fame, 

An artist's skill, an artist's name. 

I scorn the weakness that let go 

An angel's power for mortal pain. 
When love and hope went down at sea 

And left me ship-wrecked on the main; 
I tremble when I think of all 

The gifts my nerveless hands let fall. 



22 Reullura, 



SIERRA NEVADA. 

I SAW thy curving mountain wall 
Pillared with fir and hemlock green, 
And plushy moss and fern fronds tall, 
Like drapery thy shafts between. 

Here, gushing springs of water flow, 

Diaphanous as snowy lace, 
Down to the happy meades below, 

A bridal veil about thy face. 

And roses sweet, and callas white 
Break through each chrismal fold. 

When morning rolls away the night. 
To show their hearts of gold, 

Much as the souls of saints arise 
Out of their broken forms of clay. 

With shining of immortal eyes, 
In the clear light of Heaven's day. 

O, grand Sierra! crowned and capped 
With spicy woods and virgin moss, ^ 

Not Shasta's icy shafts, cloud-wrap' d. 
Like drapery round a marble cross 



A Book of Poems. 23 

Moved me to wonder and delight 

As when one day I stood alone, 
And gazed on thee as angels might 

On God's eternal throne. 



THE TEXAS CHINA TREE. 

OTREE of Paradise! most beautiful of trees, 
That revel in the Southern sun and breeze! 
No scorching rays nor deadly blight 
Touches thy leaves, which day and night. 
Move to the ever restless foot of Time, 
Like notes of music in old runic rhyme. 

No insects ever mar the leaflets fair 

That quiver at the slightest breath of air; 

No worm lies hid within thy golden fruits, 

No reptile coils about thy tender roots; 

'Tis here, the mockingbird, secure from wrong. 

Hides while she pours her soul in song, 

And when the hunter's moon is in the west. 
Dream-singing, throbs a-flame in love's unrest. 



^4 Reutlura^ 

'Tis then it seems a spirit of the night, 
Blown earthward from some world of light, 
Too full of the soft shining of the world afar 
To need the light of sun or moon or star. 

Dear bird, as sheltered in that perfect green 
You sing of love and hope and life serene, 
The everlasting arms, the refuge and the rest, 
Seem nearer to the wronged and riven breast, 
Till bom above distracting care and loss. 
We strike the lyre of love, above the cross, 

And out of starless nights and sunless days, 
Make music mete for everlasting praise; 
Then sing, O, bird of love! thou winged voice, 
In bursts of triumph sing! rejoice! rejoice! 
Till day dawn gives thy throbbing bosom rest. 
Then preen thy wings, and seek thy hidden nest. 



A Book of Poems. ^5 



DREAMS BY THE PACIFIC. 

I SAT beside the Western sea, 
Where sunset always seemed to be; 
I saw the waves aflame with light 
As though they kissed the day good night, 
Then closed the door, as one would close 
A door against assailing foes. 

I watched the moon rise and ascend, 
Its silver bow in beauty bend, 
Diana's bow! how bright it seemed. 
While I sat by the sea and dreamed 
How such a slender rim could hold 
The tides that in and outward rolled. 

I watched the white cap'd billows play, 

Where stars were mingling with the spray 

As down the sky they silently 

Drop'd in the bosom of the sea; 

I made an hour glass of my hand 

And poured through it the golden sand. 

I saw the light-house towering high, 
Somewhere between the sea and sky, 
While round me lay the fragments torn, 
From ships that once the waves had borne; 



26 ReullurUy 

How futile is man's craft and power, 
When God is ruler of the hour! 

How frail their little efforts seem, 
While I sit by the sea and dream 
Of those who in its bosom sleep, 
Of navys rotting in the deep; 
The bannered kelpies safer seem. 
As I sit by the sea and dream. 

Here too, my thoughts revert to He, 
Who walked the sea of Galilee, 
And stilled the tempest till the waves, 
Went bellowing backward to their caves. 
How calm the pulses of the deep. 
That seem eternal time to keep. 

How leaps the heart with God so nigh ! 
How thrills beneath the mid -night sky! 
With all these waters at our feet, 
The life-tide rises, pulses beat. 
Till through my lips sweet peans rise 
In praise of sea, and earth and skies. 

The breath upon the waters blown 
Was light and life; and these alone 
Give form and beauty — inter-grace. 
Scarce veiling Love's celestial face — 
Who yet, upon the waves will tread. 
And cry, — O, sea! give up thy dead! 



A Book of Poems. 27 



A DENGUE DREAM. 

I HAVE wandered wide in many a clime 
But I smell the violets still, 
That bloomed beneath the April rain, 
At the foot of Cherry-hill; 

In fevered dreams I kiss the dew 

From the golden eyes of the violets blue. 

I hear a call from the old beech trees. 

Come back on the wind from bygone years. 
The robin's call to its wandering mate, — 
A cry that is full of tender tears; 

I spring from my pillow, pulses thrill, 
And wake, alas! with a dengue chill. 

I wake afar from Cherry Hill, 

Not a friend of the old time near; 
No one to soothe my aching brow, 
Or pour for me sweet pity's tear; 
But I hear the cooling waters flow, 
Down where the spearmint used to grow. 

The cheeks that hold the maple's blood, 
The eyes that hold the beeches gray. 

With slow consuming fevers burn, 
'Till light and beauty wastes away; 



2^ Reullura^ 

The shade is deep above the rill 
That cools the foot of Cherry Hill. 

In the pulsing heat of a summer night, 
Where the grass is green and deep, 
I hear the song of the mocking bird, 
While it sings its young to sleep; 

Comes with the beech and the maple's sigh, 
And the whip-poor-will's mysterious cry. 

Till I fain would lie where the shadows fall. 

In the deep woods cool and still. 
Where violets bloom and robins sing, 
At the foot of Cherry Hill; 

The spice- woods gold and the crimson rain, 
Of maple leaves were a cure for pain. 



DES MOINES— QUEEN OF THE WEST. 

OUEEN of the west, thy waters glide 
In dimless beauty on! 
Though from thy brink the red man's foot 

Is now, forever gone; 
His light canoe no longer cleaves 

A passage through thy lapsing tide, 
And wielded by his brawny arm. 
His oar no more thy waves divide. 



A Book of Poems. 29 

No more his music wild and coarse, 

Breaks o'er thy dimpled breast; 
No more his visage dark and strange, 

Is mirrored on each shining crest. 
And for the war-hoop now is heard 

The hum of life, the busy din, 
The tramping of ten thousand feet. 

The village aisles within. 

The wild deer, too, has fled the scene. 

And with its spotted fawn, 
Beyond the murmuring of thy waves. 

And verdant meads have gone, — 
Beyond the hunter's hound and horn, 

Has found a safe retreat. 
In tangled break where may not come 

The tread of stealthy feet. 

The gnarled and braided boughs that flung 

Fantastic shadows o'er thy breast, 
Where wild birds came in early spring 

To seek a home and build their nest. 
The white man's axe has swept away. 

And in their place a palace gleams; 
And up and down the naked hills 

The plowmen drive their weary teams. 



30 Reullura, 

And where the red man's tent of bark 

Was reared in days of yore, 
Great cities rise in splendid sheen 

Along the verdaut shore; 
And where the lofty forest oak 

Once flung its ample shade, 
A fabric vast the christians' hand 

For worshipers has made. 

Where thy unceasing music breaks 

In solemn numbers on the shore, 
Fair hands the harp and viol tune. 

And thou art heeded now no more, 
Save by some heart entranced like mine, 

That still thy melody reveres, 
And hails it as a deathless voice 

That will not yield to rolling years. 

Unchanged alone, thou and the stars 

That nightly kiss each dimpled wave; 
And yon blue arch whose mirrored tents. 

Amid thy courting ripples lave. 
In dream-like song, say, dost thou mourn, 

The change that o'er the scene has swept? 
Or are thy waves but nature's tears, 

P'er waste of primal beauty wept? 



A Book of Poems. 31 



A WREATH OF IMMORTELS. 

I'VE been where geraneums and roses 
Fling the last of their fragrance and bloom, 
The last of their sweetness and beauty, 

Away on the dead summer's tomb. 
Not a ray from its sunsets but lingers 

In glorified form in this place. 
And blends in a wealth of immortels. 
To lay on the dead summer's face. 

Not a shade from the blue of the heavens, 

Not a tint from the jewels of night. 
But lingers and weeps, pretty mourners, 

For the summer that lies cold and white; 
While the dew on her bosom is falling. 

And autumn with passionate praise, 
Hymns her death to the stars, gentle watchers, 

And wails through the wood's pathless ways. 

O, I wonder if love life's lush roses. 
Will lay on my face when I'm dead. 

Such a glorified wreath of immortels! 
Such a crown for a dead poet's head! 



32 Reulluray 

All the brightness, the sunshine of years, 

All the splendor of life, the sweetness and bloom, 

The heart's highest hopes, sweet thing, 
To lie on a dead woman's tomb! 



A FANCY. 

1 SOMETIMES fancy science right. 
When life and all its dreams I pass, 
When changed by seasons dark and light, 

r 11 be a daisy in the grass; 
My blossoms plucked and petals strown, 
By maden love lorn and alone: — 

This one for sunshine of the hour, 
For hope and happy future this; 

And one for riches, one for power, 
And last, for true love's holy kiss; 

Fair lips will bless me where I lie, 
For truth lives in the daisie's eye. 

And should my spirit passing by. 
Behold the petals rent and torn, 

By one with laughter in her eye, 

I'll say, twice so I have been strown. 



A Book of Poems. 33 

For other's good, for other's gain, 

Tongue, hand and heart, and throbing brain. 

This hand for truth, this heart for love; 

My strength in gifts to all who need; 
My tongue for all the wronged of earth, 

My brain for all who care to read; 
Thus, petal-like my parts are given, 

My spirit saved alone for heaven. 



VIOLETS. 

TO-DAY the violets buds unfold 
Their fragrance on the ambient air. 
As from my heart to heaven ascend 

A long unanswered prayer; 
A prayer that reaches far beyond 
Life's fleeting joys, and mortal bound. 

Long sleeping underneath the leaves, 
In dreams delicious as my own. 

Scarce less than I, they seem to feel, 
Life's sweetest purpose flown; 

And fancy sees within their bloom, 

Some higher meaning than the tomb. 

D 



34 Reulluray 

Few hold one hope forever dear, 
Yielding to neither time nor fate, 

Aad careless of the now and here. 
Give to their prayers eternal date; 

But time, fleet as the violet's breath, 

Calls for love's answer after death. 



A WINTER DAY. 

WITHIN a grove of old oak trees. 
Discrowned now by frost and breeze, 
I lingered once and whiled away 
The sunshine of a winter day. 
The light shown through the leafless limbs. 
That sang such melancholy hymns; 
They seemed the wail of one above. 
The pulseless heart of buried love. 

I know that spring will bring again 

The green leaves, and the sun and rain 
Their beauty and their tints renew. 
And bathe in light and gem with dew; 

But we, O, heart of mine tell me! 

Will you and I be there to see ? 
To hear the bursting buds unfold 
Their tassles rich with heaven's gold ? 



A Book of Poems, 35 

Or watch the sunshine softly through 
The distant depths of heaven's blue 

Or see the dead awake and sing 

From every clod, another spring ? 
O, heart! O, heart! shall we be there 
To welcome every leaflet fair, 

Like those my feet have pressed to-day, 

While dreaming the sweet hours away ? 

Or shall some cloudless clime be ours, 

A land abloom with fadeless flowers. 

Where winter winds no dead leaves whirl 
In windrows through the gates of pearl; 

Where bright in form, through arches green, 

The loved and loving walk unseen, 
And find in that eternal sphere. 
More joy than they had dreamed of here. 



36 Reulhira, 



ENNUI. 

O YEARS and days forever fled! 
What heart but calls and asks for you, 
When time on light and radiant wings, 
Swift as a bird through heaven flew ! 

I call and call. No answer comes 
To make the present moment bright; 

I call on youth and love and hope, 

All perished dreams of some ' ' last night. ' ' 

Now every day seems a whole year, 

And every week seems seven; 
O, I could wish all time would fly 

And leave me only heaven! 



PROMISE BUDS. 

RAVE winter winds through forest old; 
The monarch oak yields to your sway. 
And conquered by your threatening wrath. 
Their crowns of glory fling away. 



A Book of Poems. 37 

And through the air their bare arras sway, 

In hopeless sorrow to and fro; 
And breathe their deep and loud laments, 

Akin to mortal woe. 

Nor know where winter's hand hath swept 
The leaflets from their morning sprays, 

A promise rests of lovelier growth, 
With Spring's returning rays. 

So we who mourn at seeming wrong, 
And murmur at the chastening rod. 

Fail to perceive through tear-dimmed eyes. 
The bright designs of God. 

Nor know 'twas mercy's hand that stripped 
Our hearts of the false hues they wore, 

That faith, and love, ''the promise buds," 
Might bloom for evermore. 



THE FIRST ROBIN OF SPRING— 1870. 



M 



ID faded wreaths of last years' leaves 
O, songful Robin, how forlorn! 



Yet faith upbears thy cheery notes. 
This misty April morn. 



38 Reullura, 

No sign of tender green is there, 

No sweet unfolding flowers; 
Nor sunny smiles, through breaks of blue 

To glorify the hours. 

No balmy air, with fragrance rife, 

No promise of the good to be, 
Nor ringing notes of answering love 

From happy mate, to welcome thee. 

Yet with the self-same songs you sung 

The autumn flowers to rest, 
' Mid waves of gold and crimson light. 

And happy mate to share thy nest. 

You stir the withered leaves, and call 

The dreaming daisies to arise; 
And e'en invoke, from mom till eve. 

The sunshine of the purple skies. 

O, human faith, could yoii but rise, 
And triumph thus, when every ray 

That beautified life's morning hour, 
Has passed in sudden gloom away, 

Instead of sighing 'mid the wreck 

Of hopes that blossomed through the years. 

And falling, left no fruit to tell, 

Where love had sown in smiles and tears. 



A Book of Poems. 39 

Our songs might wake the dreaming world 

Life's morning tight restore, 
And the ripe fruits of joy and peace, 

Be ours for evermore. 



THE TRUE POET. 

HE swings a pen of fire and snow. 
Cool where life's burning fevers lie, 
But hot against the thousand wrongs, 
That hatch and thrive beneath the sky; 
And such be mine if left to choose. 
What pen of millions I would use. 

He has no hate to gratify; 
No envy, jealousy nor spite; 

'Tis love alone that drives his quill. 
The love of beauty, truth and right. 
And these alone aid high-born will, 
Life's highest purpose to fulfill. 

Pressed by a thousand nameless foes, 
'Tis sometimes hard to keep the track. 

Nor fling a crushing answer down. 
At those who shoot him in the back. 
But concious of his righteous aim, 
He heeds no hurt, no mortal pain. 



40 Reulluray 

And standing where the purer light 
Falls from the trailing clouds of grace, 

The glory of the better land 
Shines softly through his reverent face; 
With pen baptised with sacred flame, 
He writes but in his Master's name. 



MYRIAM. 

Rev. Dr, Swing says: "Woman's place is in the Garden of sorrow,' 
forever weeping, and forever seeking. 

O MYRIAM, Myriam the timbrel is thine, 
, But the glory belongs to the host of the Lord; 
Go, sing with your maidens, their dark eyes a-shine. 
But man's is the conquest of banner and sword. 

Where Elime lies fair in the sun's golden light. 
There is room for the tents and cool is the shade 

Of the palm trees that shelter the conquering knight, 
With pillar of flame, and death dealing blade. 

But Prophetess, thou of the shame smitten face. 
Go, wander afar; seek the clefts of the hills; 

Cry — unclean! royal maid of Levitical race, 
Quench not your thirst at the clear flowing rills. 



A Book of Poems. 41 

When the curse is removed, return thou and live; 

Humbly go, with the lowest and least; 
Twine the fine linen, embroider, and give 

Your jewels for breast-plates and bells for the Priest. 

O, Myriam, Myriam never despair! 

Strike the sweet timbrel, and dance as you go! 
Sing the triumph of war, but Myriam, beware! 

Touch not the spoils, lest the Lord lay you low! 

From the Red Sea wave to Christ in the manger, 
Your Hfe is a failure, yet, never despair! 

For man in the hour of death and of danger, 

Looks to woman's white lips for kisses and prayer. 



ASHES OF ROSES. 

WHERE are you now ? In the moonlight alone ? 
O, I fear that some happier woman than I, 
Walks with you and watches the star studded sky, 
While yon moon 'rises high on her throne; 
Some happier woman, fair as the skies, 

Hears your low words of endearment to-night. 
And thrills at your touch, and laughs with delight, 
As she turns from the stars to the light of your eyes. 



42 Reulhira^ 

O, where do you linger ? what form do you hold 
Folded close to your heart in a tender embrace, 
The love- lighted eyes shining up in your face, 

While you whisper a story that never grows old ? 

O, man with a form like Apollo of old. 

And heart like the gods that descended the skies, 
When the daughters of men with their wonderful 
eyes, 

Drew them down from their temples of purple and 
gold; 

I'm calling you, — calling through worlds, — are you 
near ? — 
As the daughters of men called the lords of the 

skies. 
With passionate praise, and love-lighted eyes; 
O, come! for the night with its mystery is here! 
I fain would walk with you where brilliant with dew, 
The rose and carnation breathes balm on the night. 
And the mocking birds sing in the moon's silver 
light, 
My hand on your arm, and my eyes raised to you. 



A Book of Poems. 43 



IN DREAM TO-NIGHT. 

STAND where the sunset and the stars 
Look this way through the twilight dim, 
Across the mountain's silver bars, 
Across the evening's purple rim. 

So I can see through time and space, 

Transfigured in the evening light. 
The lineaments of thy fair face, 

And take them with me in my dreams to-night. 

Turn, O turn thee, from the dazzling snare. 
That cheats thy heart with its delusive hue! 

O love, let down, let down the golden bars 
That shuts me out from you! 

A moment only kiss your finger tips, 

And touch the wind bound this way on the night; 
'Twould break in balm upon my pleading lips. 

And turn to music in the morning light. 



44 Reullura, 



A NIGHT ON SAMARKAND. 

I LIE half entranced on my pillow of snow, 
And watch where the lilies of night are ablow, 
While the bird in my heart beats its wings at the bars, 
As I follow in fancy the course of the stars. 

I ask of each one as it shines up above, 
Some token or sign, some news of my love; 
Wherever he lingers, wherever he strays. 
They reach him to-night with quivering rays. 

They seem to be speaking, their language I know 
Is too fine for the ears of us mortals below; 
Butlo! through the night with its old, old story, 
They point to the paths leading up into glory. 

So far from the world, from the turmoils of men, 

O, must I return to the low planes again, 

And leave to the gods the question unsaid, 

If the stars are the homes of the souls of the dead ? 

Who, living, and loving passed on out of sight 
To join the grand choir in the temple of night, — 
Exalted so high that they answer us never. 
Though we cry to the heavens forever and ever. 



A Book of Poems. 45 



LIFE'S LESSON. 

THERE 'S not a soul that lives but learns 
That life means pain and loss; 
The wearing of some secret chain, 
The bearing of some cross. 

The prayer that asks for length of days, 

Asks too, for sighs and tears; 
For hours of anxious care attend 

The days that make the years. 

The eager quest of power and place. 

The avarice of gold, 
Invites the serpents hiss of hate, 

Ingratitude, and love grown cold. 

From crowned summits of the hills. 

One catches wider scenes; 
And learns, the grandest mountain height. 

The deepest valley means. 

The brightest day is mother of 

A night of starless gloom; 
And e'en the longest path of life. 

Leads to the silent tomb. 



46 Reullura, 

As the blue heaven's deepest calm, 
Contains the lightning's dart, 

So life and love, man's highest good. 
May break the truest heart. 



MY DREAM OF THEE. 

WHAT could recall my dreams of thee. 
If not the morning fresh and fair. 
When nature's richest, tenderest green 

Is wrought with flowers fresh and fair, 
And every shimmering ray of mom, 

Lights diamonds in each drop of dew, 
Just as the shining in my heart, 
Awakes at every thought of you? 

Dear love, — dear heart, — the noon-day sun, 

May drink the dew-drops from the flowers, 
The rain may pelt the roses down, 

The wind devast the shady bowers; 
But where no burning rays descend, 

No beating rain-storms sweep, 
I hold the tenderest thoughts of thee. 

Like shining shells in ocean's deep. 



A Book of Poems. 47 

From all the world I turn and wait, 

Till youth's sweet dream comes true; 
Thou should' St be all of life to me, 

I, all of Love, sweetheart, to you. 
Time cannot dim the sacred hour. 

When heart to heart our vows were given; 
But spare my dreams, the only taste. 

That I have ever had of heaven. 



THE NUN. 

OHOW my days go on, go on, 
Like beads a silken thread upon, 
Leaving me like a weeping nun, 
Praying from dawn 'to set of sun. 
Till year on year is onward rolled, 
As bead by bead a rosary 's told. 

O, days, O days that onward glide. 
What secrets in your depths abide! 
Bowed in life's narrow cell in tears, 
'Neath the black vail of loveless years, 
My heart resents the strange decree. 
That closed Love's paradise on me! 



48 ReuUura, 



CAN FORTUNE'S FROWN ROB INNOCENCE 

OF JOY? 

I HEARD a gay laugh, and I thought I knew 
There was joy and gladness from whence it came; 
The Hngering Hght on that fair young brow, 

Told never a word of sorrow or pain; 
A moment later her heart was laid bare, 
And I saw within the shaft of despair. 

I saw on a pale thin cheek some pearls. 

And I thought them tears of sorrow and grief; 

I fain would have borne to that bosom balm, 
To the burdened heart have tendered relief; 

But I found the current out of sight. 

Was illumed by Heaven's effulgent light. 

Now I cannot for the life of me tell 
Whether it is better to laugh or to weep; 

Or who are the blessed — the world's gay throng 
Or the mourning ones whom the angels keep; 

But this I know, an unchanging voice 

Said ''they that mourn will I make rejoice." 



A Book of Poems. 49 



THE DEW PLANT. 



The following poem was suggested on seeing a person who had no 
appreciation of either its value or its beauty, break a long trailing spray 
from a plant which the writer had regarded with tender care for one year. 



O FLOWER of silvery drooping stem 
And petals rosy hued, 

Of window plants the fairest gem 
With crystal drops bedewed. 

One sin is set against thy grace 

As flush, thy faultless flowers expand; 

Tempting like women's blushing face, 
The spoiler's reckless hand. 

Thy shining sprays and tempting bloom, 

Like Magdalene falls at last; 
Spurned in the dust, O, hapless doom! 

With all thy sweetness past. 

Thy meekness, innocence and grace. 
Like women's charms, destruction win; 

Man's glory — life, lies in her face 
Or snares that lure to mortal sin. 



50 Reulluray 

O, emblem of frail beauty's heart 
Blushing in shadows cool and green, 

Teach women that their woman's art 
Is to be sweet and seldom seen. 



PARTED. 

TO-NIGHT dear, the loud storm is raging, 
The wind wrecks the flowers in its path. 
And the lightning the heavens is cleaving, 
And the stars stand aghast at its wrath. 

The bird that in summer sun sings, 
To its wind-shaken covert is flying, 

Where its little ones sheltered and warm, 
In their leaf covered cottage are lying. 

The trees bend their heads as in anguish. 
And the rose as in sorrow, or fright, 

FUngs the wealth of its sweetness and beauty, 
Away on the storm-smitten night. 

But to-morrow the sun in its glory, 
Will turn all the rain-drops to gold; 

And the blossoms that lie half discovered, 
With the freshness of morning unfold. 



A Book of Poems. 51 

The tree tops will wave the birds welcome, 
As they come from their coverts to sing; 

And all the glad halls of the mountain, 
With songs of thanksgiving will ring. 

But I, O my darling, forever, 

Like a wind smitten harp sigh and moan ! 
No hand sweeps the deep chords with rapture, 

I walk through death's valley alone! 

Life's sun set far back on my pathway, 
No star through the distance appears; 

No radiance to turn into jewels, 
A river of passionate tears. 

Yet one little word, O, my darling, 

Like a leaf from a flood-covered world. 

And my heart would go forth like the morning. 
With its banner of crimson unfurled! 

One word, through the years that's between us, 
Through the darkness, the chaos and gloom, 

And my heart would go happily onward, 
With its dreams to a rose covered tomb. 



52 Reullufay 



SINCE THOU ART GONE. 

THE time seems long, since thou art gone;- 
Fve lost the meter of Love's song: 
A lingering trace of old-time grace 
Hides in the furrows of my face; 
I see again the strange surprise, 
I saw within your startled eyes 
When I, with maiden grace denied 
Myself to thee, with modest pride 
Half canceling the truth you knew. 
By looking in my eyes of blue. 

Why man, the master, stands aloof. 
Waiting a woman's sweet reproof. 
For lack of heart to hear at last. 
His doom when hope is over passed, 
Is more than I in prostrate woe. 
Can ever hope on earth to know; 
Thou, who with will erect might bring. 
Love's sunshine to another spring. 
Stand there, aghast, without endeavor, 
As if time's tide stood still forever. 

Alas! the bird has ceased to sing; 
Folded for aye its drooping wing; 



A^Book of Poems. 53 

No other bird will sing for me, 
No other dawn will break for thee; 
So ends love's story, — not the pain. 
Go! wait for me! I'll come again 
In some far fairer, sweeter guise. 
And under more auspicious skies. 

What of the cycles that may sweep 
Above us while we lie asleep, 
Rebuilding beauties' mortal shrine. 
If I am yours and you are mine ? 
The law of love and life runs through, 
Time's time, as Heaven, forever true; 
Born and reborn the life that seems, 
Wrap'd round about in endless dreams; 
I give thee grace, sweetheart, to-day, 
Cover thy face, and go my way. 



THE PLAY OF AGES. 

AT EVENTIDE the sun went down 
A street of pure transparent gold; 
Earth watched him with a jealous frown, 
But where he went or who he saw, 
No one hath ever told. 



54 Reullura, 

The story runs, he left the World in tears, 
A sable mantle round her bosom drawn, 

Trembling with wild distracting fears, 
Wailing and waiting for the dawn, — 
A crownless Queen. 

Out of the the tents of silence came the stars, 
With lamps to highten her despair; 

The moon came trembling on the scene. 
And braided diamonds in her hair; 

A night bird told her woe in song. 

Sighing she watched the dismal West, 
' Twixt burning hope and mad despair. 

The king stole softly up the East, 

And set a jeweled coronet upon her hair; 
All hail the Queen! 

She smiled, — the forests rang with joy. 
The startled stars their lights withdrew; 

The moon turned pale and fell to weeping. 
And so the grass was wet with dew. 
While it was sleeping. 

Hark! the sound of fluttering wings! 

The World is trembling with delight; 
Encore! Encore! from earth to heaven rings. 

And crimson banners flood the World with light; 
So, the old play goes on forever. 



A Book of Poe^ns. 55 



DON'T BOTHER. 

THE surface of the earth may change, 
The hills be leveled down, 
The ocean drained to flood the plain, 
The skies turned Bismark brown, 
Don't bother! 

The gas within the heart of earth, 

Distended like a ball. 
Be used for forty candle power, 

And like a squeezed orange, fall, 
Don't bother! 

Let cyclones rip and earthquakes tear. 
Sea beaches sink, volcanoes flare. 

Earth's equilibrium never fear, 
She's acting on the square,— 
Don't bother! 

What though the cycles nearly run. 
And stars fall from their places, 

And there are spots upon the sun. 
You've freckles on your faces, — 
Don't bother! 



56 Reullura, 

Let preachers preach, and teachers teach, 
The World will have its way, 

And like the dog, is very sure, 
To huff along and have its day: — 
Don't bother! 

Let politicians rave and rant, 
The world will still go round; 

Let doctors pour their physic out, 
So they but pour it on the ground, — 
Don't bother! 

Don't loose your grip on this old World, 
Nor needless trouble borrow; 

Our yesterdays are all behind. 

Each makes his own to-morrow, — 
Don't bother! 



A Book of Poems. 57 



GORDON OF KHARTOUM. 

" A ND many months went on, the same; 
r\ He lay besieged in dark Khartoum, 
No ray of hope or succor came 

To light the ever-gathering gloom. 
But bravely with his little band. 

With courage dauntless to the core. 
He fought the rebel hand to hand 

Like hero knight in days of yore. 

*■ ' Deep were the sands of Egypt dyed 
With English blood in bygone days; 
There deeds were done that have defied 
E'en time to dim the well won praise. 
And now upon this scroll of fame, 

Which no dark cloud shall ever gloom, 
We place another glorious name — 
'Tis gallant Gordon of Khartoum." 

— London Fun. 



58 Reiillura, 



AN ANSWER. 

TOO late you sing the glorious name, 
Of one by laggard statesmen slain; 
Your harp is stained with noble blood, 
Poured out by Egypt's purple flood; 
O, tell us not, at dark Khartoum, 
Your Gordon fills a bloody tomb! 

Let he who sang of Vere De Vere, 
Bend low and kiss the soldier's bier; 
His song were less than one fair thread, 
From glorious Gordon's blood stained head! 
Shame, shame on England's heart and hand! 
Shame on the laggards of the land! 

You dozed above your beef and bread, 
While Arabs held that hero's head, 
Impaled upon a barb of steel. 
Too drunk on blood to think or feel. 
O, England, let your words be few! 
He died in noble scorn of you ! 

If every proud imperial vein, 
Were poured out, a purple rain. 



A Book of Poems. 59 

It could not wash from history's page, 
The shame, the anger and the rage 
Of valor, when on war's red plain. 
You left your Gordon to be slain. 

O, shame! O, shame! that Khartoum, 
Should be your hero's bloody tomb! 
Go take it from the Arab horde! 
Go slay with saber, gun and sword! 
And claim for England the tomb, 
That valor found at Khartoum! 

** God bless the Queen," while Gordon lies, 
A headless trunk, 'neath Egypt's skies. 
O world, O man, O life, O time. 
Ring out a nation drunk with crime! 
Besotted, tottering, let it fall. 
While nations unto nations call. 

** Behold your sins have found you out! " 
Your infamy beyond a doubt. 
Is seen in every waving rag, 
Of your blood stained, imperial flag; 
Avaunt thee! proudest, vilest thing, 
That ever waived above a King! 

While Gordon lies in Egypt's sands, 
There is inscribed by viewless hands 



6o Reullura^ 

Upon your door posts, everywhere, 
("You heard but heeded not his prayer.") 
' ' Weighed in the balance, thou art found. 
Empty of everything but sound." 

Around your festal board beware! 
(You heeded not his dying prayer), 
A spectre stalks in sable gloom, 
Like he that fell at Khartoum. 
Upon your robes, gold broidered round, 
The blood of innocence is found. 
Let harps be hushed and words be few, 
He died in noble scorn of you! 



AN AUTUMN LEAF. 

IN musing mood one autumn day, 
I walked where summer's glories lay; 
I could have wept, for every leaf, — 
The bare boughs wailed in tearless grief. 

A leaf whirled windward! here it lies, 
Appealing to the eternal skies; 
Yet, holding in its slender frame 
A date, a life, a lingering flame. 



A Book of Poems. 6i 

Some rain, some shine, a tint of spring, 
Of green woods breath, a lingering; 
A deepening tint of summer's gold, 
A phantom from the frost-fields cold. 

A worm hath writ in strange device, 
Its monogram so clear and nice. 
It must have hoped this leaf would save 
Its memory from the common grave. 

O, worms and men! ye write on leaves, 
And over them the spider weaves 
A winding sheet of ashen gray, 
'Till winter winds blow both away! 



A PROPHECY. 

I will clasp hands with no rebel across any chasm however small until it 
is conceded that the cause for which they fought was the cause of treason 
and of wrong. — Garfield. 

THE * 'Chasm" widens when the hand 
That should have bridged it o'er, 
Asks all the manhood of our land. 
Of which to build a trestle floor. 



62 ReullurUy 

You hold the wealth of honest toil, 
The toiler holds the plow and hoe; 

He wrings your riches from the soil, 
And still you tax him as a foe. 

Reversing the eternal law — 

Who plows and sows shall surely reap; 
You leave the laborer the straw, 

The kernel of the grain you keep. 

Some day the dreaming world will wake, 
When startiing wrong shakes every hearth; 

Then, freemen born will freedom take 
To smite the oppressor from the earth. 

With white hands crushing Freedom's flower, 

Within her temple's dome, 
Remember in your vaunting power, 

There was a Caesar and a Rome. 



A Book of Poems. 63 



DECEMBER. 

DECEMBER! Let the gay world sing 
Of May with all her flowers, — 
Her tinted skies, and building birds, 

And happy, songful hours, — 
Her dreamy golden days. 

Yes, sing your best about the bloom, 

Of heather-bell and roses; 
And all the dainty scented things. 

The queen of spring discloses, — 
Her pageantry and pride. 

The tapestry of hill and vale, 

A flush all o'er with glory; 
And music of the water-falls. 

Blent with the sweeter story. 
Told by the balmy winds. 

But I will sing December drear, 
Her icy breath, and crown of frost; 

And tears of sorrow o'er the tomb, 
Of bud and bloom forever lost, — 

Her wail above the dead. 



64 Reullura, 

Then flinging back her sombre robes, 
Disclose a bosom less forlorn; 

For backward on the tide of Time, 

'Twas here, the Christ of earth was born- 

The God incarnadined. 

Hail to December! ever hail! 

Upon her bosom icy cold. 
The fairest flower of time was born, 

Abloom with life in every fold, 
The flower of love divine. 



MORNING. 

NIGHT with her phantom train recedes. 
The gray mist wind away; 
And morning swings her flaming torch, 
To usher in the day, 

Till half the heavens pale and glow, 
Like seas of mingled fire and snow. 

The tears by weeping evening shed. 
On every drooping flowerets fold. 
Touched by Morn's Midaen fingers bum 
Like drops of liquid gold; 

Each drop reflecting back the grace, 
And glory of her blushing face. 



A Book of Poems. 65 

Her rosy lances touch and thrill, 

Each blossom's core of gold, 
Till they, like loving human hearts, 
Drop incense from each shining fold; 
By every wind blown to and fro. 
Still blessing all where e'er they go. 

With dappled wings of cloud and fire, 
O'er nature's bosom wide unfurled, 
She freshens up the sluggish air, 
To wake a dreaming world: 

Cools down the throbbing pulse and cries. 
To every living thing — ''arise! " 

Each leaf and blade like cloven tongue, 

In language strange and sweet. 
The prophecy of nature's heart. 
In mystic strain repeat; 

While morning's burning glances fall. 
Like Heaven's own baptism over all. 

Up rising from their downy nests 

Millions of fluttering wings are seen; 
And music sweeter far than mine. 
Rings through the temples green; 
Till half way up the dome of fire. 
Ascends the peans of the choir. 



F 



66 Reulluray 

Her drapery of red and gold, 

Sweeps o'er the troubled water's breast, 
Illuming every darkling wave, 
And tinging every billow's crest, 

Till they might seem the wine wind, driven, 
For which Hebe lost her place in heaven. 

And myriad voices blending sing, 

"The God we praise," in light and shade, 
Whose plastic hand the dark and light, 
The night, as well as morning made; 
Till waves of music round His feet, 
' * 7> Deum laudamus' ' repeat. 



"A ROSE FROM THE FIELD OF ATLANTA." 

AROSE from the field of Adanta," 
'Twas thus that he wrote me one day. 
And there, in the folds of a letter. 
The blood-red blossom lay. 

It sprang where a Southern hero fell. 
While the battle raged from left to right, 

Pierced to the heart with shot and shell. 
And left on the field on a starless night. 



A Book of Poems. 67 

They buried him there at break of day, 

The morning stars still burning 
Then mingled again in the awful fray, 

Their faces homeward turning. 

Forgetting in war the covered face, 

And the heart closed softly over, 
But the sunshine found the sacred place. 

And called to the rose and clover 

To spread a mantle of verdure there, 

And raise with tender mien, 
Like a lifted hand in silent prayer, 

A shaft of living green; 

Then drew from the dust his dying prayer. 

And his heart's pathetic story, 
Blended them into a blossom fair. 

Type of a hero's love and glory. 

'*A rose from the field of Atlanta," 
'Twas thus that he wrote me one day. 

And there, in the folds of a letter. 
The mystic emblem lay. 

On my bosom I wear the flame. 

The red-leaved letter with heart of gold, 

A revelation of love and fame. 

Far too sweet for the grave to hold. 



68 Retilhiray 



AUTUMN. 

SUMMER'S last day is dead, 
And on a purple bed, 
Sinks to her dreamless rest; 
While Autumn walks the earth, 
A queen of royal birth 

With garlands on her breast. 

But O, the wonderous grace. 
And glory of her face, 

Half veiled in dusky hair, 
Her deep pathetic tone. 
And blossoms 'round her strown. 

Proclaim her beauty in despair ! 

Some lover in Time's mom, 
Her passion laughed to scorn; 

So, deserted and alone. 
Six-thousand circling years, 
She has walked the earth in tears, 

With melancholy moan, 

Has sought but never found, 
On Time's Daedalian round. 



A Book of Poems. 6g 

An answer to her prayer; 
So, behind a sable veil, 
She walks with temples pale, 

And carnations in her hair. 



ONE NIGHT. 

SEPTEMBER 1 5, 1 883. 

THE night was pretty as a dream, 
When arm in arm the angels walk; 
And O, some glory fell on me,— 
A peace; I did not care to talk; 
But dreamed beneath the blue and gold. 
The story by the prophets told. 

A white cloud ruffled round the moon; 

A scarf was draped across the sky; 
A star or two shone through the lace. 

As through a veil, a maiden's eye. 
Beyond, the intense blue of night. 
Seemed bluer for the drapery white. 

The shining pleiads of the morn, 

That sang the birth hymn of the world, 

Flamed over head, while far below, 
A lambent banner was unfurled; 



70 Reullura^ 

Night's tears were falling on my face, — 
Baptismal tears, and holy place ! 

A convent from the world shut in, 

Where tears, and prayers, and beauty blend. 
And answers came for every plea. 

That on the wings of love ascend; 
The world fell off and I alone, 
Bowed speechless at my Father's throne. 

And through the night, beyond the stars. 
There rang the endless song of grace, — 

Good will to man, and heaven's peace 
Be in my future dwelling place ! 

Of all the worlds that people night, 

The earth is dearest in God's sight. 

I rose, fair fingers touched the chords 

Of Lyra, by the angels played, 
When o'er the awful darkness void, 

God breathed and our world was made; 
All human loves and death and pain. 
Were blended in that one refrain. 

Across the darkness morning dawned; 

Nature awoke; all things were new; 
Like love within a human heart, 

A flame shone in each drop of dew; 
The sun, like life, rose from his bed. 
And night, with all its dreams had fled. 



A Book of Poems. 71 



DIED. 

On the morning of the 28th of March, Prince Leopold, at Cannes, France, 
youngest son of Queen Victoria. 

THE DEAD PRINCE LEOPOLD. 

LEOPOLD dead! Leopold dead! 
A son so near the royal heart! 
How could grim death in reckless mood, 

An Empress and her idol part ? 
Oh Death, thou fiend in raiment fair, 
How could' St thou smite Britannia's heir? 

Ah! now, she tastes the bitter cup. 
But not the pangs of childless woe, 

Pressed to Eugenia's quivering lips. 
Nor late, nor long ago ! 

Two mothers cry, *' My child (mon cher)" 

Britannia's Prince, Napoleon's heir! 

Some whisper, she it was who sent 

The Prince Imperial to his fate; 
O, Queen! Despair and Death in Justice' name, 

Bailiffs upon your footsteps wait! 
The boomerang so careless thrown. 
Smites down the pillars of your throne. 



72 Reullura^ 

The cross upon her mother heart, 
Cancels a debt to nature due; 

* * viNi CREATOR bending low, 
In tears I give him back to you;" 

Beside the tomb so damp and cold, 

Make one to-day for Leopold. 



WRITTEN ON HEARING OF THE ASSASINA- 
TION OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN. 

THE soldiers mourn the star that shed 
Its radiance o'er their years of toil, 
Should set while peace with silvery wings 
Came fluttering back to freedom's soil. 

And the downtrodden and oppressed, 
Mourn as the blossoms mourn the light, 

When not a single star looks down. 
The dark and dismal dome of night. 

The widowed mourner weeps afresh. 
The orpan's heart is wrung again. 

And to the wounded spirit springs 
A newly added pain. 



A Book of Poems. 73 

There is no loyal heart untouched 

By sorrow's poison dart, 
For death's black banner shrouds the joy 

That thrilled the nation's heart. 

For while our flag in glory waves 

O'er Richmond's ruined wall, 
The world's best friend lies cold in death 

Beneath a funeral pall. 

Weep, people weep, and mourn O, world. 

For one who well deserves thy tears, 
No other hand hath ever won 
. Such triumphs for our coming years. 

No other hand hath ever dealt 

Such blows on bold oppression's brow, 

No statesman's voice told freedoms worth 
As he has told it now. 

The truths he taught will still live on, 
And gathering strength in years to be, 

Fling back a lustre o'er the world, 
To mark the pathway of the free. 

And hearts in every land and clime, 
Where freedom's banner is unfurled 

Will be the caskets that enshrine, 

The good that he has done the world. 



74 Reullura, 



OUR DARLING IS DEAD. 

SHAKE the hearts from the lillies abloom! 
Fall roses and whiten the sod! 
I have given my heart to the tomb, 
And the life of it back unto God! 

O, pain that of loving is born! 

O, tears wrung from memory's spring! 
Take the place of the bud that is gone, 

To bloom in perennial spring! 

I have lived on a life that has fled; 

How then can I lingering wait, 
(Now that my darling is dead) 

Outside of the heavenly gate. 

Shake the hearts from the lillies abloom! 

Fall roses and sweeten the sod! 
I have given my life to the tomb, 

And the heart of it back unto God! 



A Book of Poems. 75 



LINES ON THE DEATH OF MRS. MOLLY 
LANKFORD. 

DISTURB not her pillow, her head rests with ease, 
Beneath the green grasses just touched by the 
breeze. 
The breezes that woo the roses' sweet breath, 
And brings it to hallow the valley of death. 

Here, the memory of anguish, of sorrow and tears, 
Dropped forever; the lingering years 
Which weigh down the aged, the time stricken form. 
The beauty, the grace and the pulses once warm. 

Reach never to groove out the wrinkles of age. 
Or wither the heart — life's red-lettered page. 
Then thanks to. our Father, the shadow is sweet. 
That shelters the pilgrim, with dust covered feet. 



76 ReullurUf 



LINES ON THE MONUMENT ERECTED TO 
THE MEMORY OF EDGAR A. POE. 

HE NEEDS not the hand of a sculptor 
To cover his dust with a fane; 
Let the winds from the gardens of myrrh, 

Bear daisy seed up from the plain, 
To bloom o'er his breast where he's sleeping 
Toil's glorious recompense reaping. 

He built in his passion and pride 

A temple of poetry, beauty and song. 

To cover the pathway behind him, 
So blotted with sorrow and wrong, 

As he quickened his steps to the portal. 

The home of his brothers immortal. 

He needeth not fame's brazen bell, 

To ring him to glorified rest; 
Does the sun need a herald to tell. 

When it sets in the gold smitten west ? 
Rising up from his grave like a pillar of flame. 
Is the praise he hath won over blindness and blame. 



A Book of Poems. 77 

As the splendor of sunset that crowns, 

Some time-riven castle of Rhine, 
His fame will illumin his urn, 

With a light that will never decline! 
No thanks to the marble; his story is told, 
In tomes that are tinted with purple and gold. 

And the muse-loving pilgrims who bow. 
At the name on the shrine that you raise, 

Will smile as they think of your pains. 

To steal from the dead a small portion of praise. 

Let the winds from the gardens of spice as they go. 

Bear the daisy seed down to the bosom of Poe. 



LINES WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF MRS. 
R. MARSCHALK. 

A POET AND JOURNALIST. 

DEATH'S shadows fall; we weep and pray. 
Then lay the perished form away. 
All white and cold, and calm and still, 
In dreamless sleep on yonder hill. 
Dear hearts, dear hearts! why should you weep, 
Where only the clay caskets sleep ? 



7^ Reullura, 

When half sublimed away from earth, 
She looked and longed for heavenly birth, 
Bearing for aye, the sign within, 
That she had been redeemed from sin; 
Not by Christ's tears at Salem's sea; 
For she had wept as well as He. 

Not by the gall and wormwood, no; 
She too had drained the cup of woe; 
Not by love's sacrifice alone; 
But by a thousand of her own. 
Why ring our hands and lift our eyes, 
Appealing to unanswering skies ? 

Dust unto dust; she is no more 
A dweller on Time's transient shore; 
The empty place, the vacant chair — 
Awakes the question, where, O, where 
The spirit dwells ? In what new guise — 
She walks, 'neath softly shining skies ? 

Or, if with joy, she greets her lost, 

Sweet flowers, touched by untimely frost — 

In beauties bloom ? O, joy supreme! 

It is no poet's idle dream. 

That gives her back, in brighter guise, 

Her loved ones risen to the skies. 



A Book of Poems. 79 

Sweet memories of her smiles and sighs; 
Of happy songs and shining eyes, 
Go with us, till we too lie down. 
Beneath the earth, so cool and brown, 
AH white and cold, and calm and still. 
In dreamless sleep on yonder hill. 



LINES ON THE DEATH OF- 



WHO DIED AT SAN MARCOS, TEXAS, IN THE PRIME 
AND BEAUTY OF LIFE. 

THERE'S a place where the willows are weeping. 
Bright drops, that in darkness are shed, 
Dripping down from each slender leaflet. 
Like tears on the face of the dead. 

There lies, in a chamber of silence, 

A heart that once trembled with bliss. 
Like magnolia bells in the morning. 

To the balm-ladened wind's tender kiss; 

But death and dark silence together, 

On wings like the raven and dove, 
Came down where Alice was sleeping, 

And bore her bright spirit above. 



8o Reullura, 

There are signs of sweet spring in the winter, 
And flowers in the robin's return, 

And a promise of fine morning weather 
In the fires of sunset that burn 

Low down on eve's golden altar. 

Like embers from flames that have passed; 
And we know by all signs that dear Alice 

Will rise in new glory at last. 

Here's a sign for the dead of all ages, 

The high and the lowly who lie 
Low down in the valley of ashes, 

With faces turded up to the sky. 

There's a mist on the spray of the willow, 
That emblem of love's constancy; 

But the emblem of life, resurrection, 
Is the robin that sings in the tree. 



A Book of Poems. 8i 



BABY MARY IS DEAD. 

THE trees will soon resume their robes, 
And nature's minstrels all awake 
Such tones of harmony as they 
Swept by a hand divine, can make. 

Long lines of golden light will gild 
The forests' wild sequestered way, 

And wood-birds hail, with glad surprise. 
The blushing dawn of spring's first ray. 

And through a robe of emerald tears 
A thousand shining blossoms burst, 

To shed their fragrance o'er the way 
That man's own sinfulness has cursed. 

These wake to life — these bud and bloom, 
Afresh from yesterday's decay, 

But where is she whose hands we clasped 
And covered her sweet face with clay. 

No more to my fond heart I'll press, 
The object I held dearest there: 

My treasure's gone, and all that's left 
To me's a shining tress of hair. 



82 Reullura^ 

But O, by faith, I lift the vail 

That screens her from my anxious gaze; 
O, heart of mine be still! be still! 

Or only speak a Saviour's praise! 

No blossom in that clime can fade, 
Each opening bud shall brighter glow; 

Eternal spring around them flings 
A bloom that mortals never know. 

And I rejoice in the sweet truth 

That sorrows, such as I have known, 

Can never pass the guarded gates 
Of her eternal home. 

And O, by faith, I feel I may 
Beneath the wings of love abide. 

And by the light of future years 

May see 'twas well sweet Mary died. 



A Book of Poems. 83 



MARS, THE GOD OF WAR. 

MARS rises red in his fury, 
Drunk with the blood of the slain, 
Wrings blood from the purple clusters, 

Crushed in the mills of pain; 
The cup in his swollen fingers 

Is pressed to the dry-mouthed world; 
And there is suicide, murder and rapine. 

And kings from their thrones are hurled, 
While earth, Niobe of worlds. 

Dumb with grief for her dying and dead, 
Stands pale in the temple of God, 

With an asphodel wreath on her head. 



PAINT IT RED. 

O YE angels who keep the records of life, 
, In the courts of the Heavenly king! 
What pen could transcribe or what book could con- 
tain. 
The songs that our people could sing! 



84 Reullura, 

Plume your wings for a flight — come hither and bring 

Your typewriters — telephones — too; 
For a book and a pen such as John saw of old, 

For our Jubilee never would do! 

Bring your telegraph wires and plant them between 

Our hills and the court of your King, 
So all heaven my learn how the children of men 

Made the welkin for Liberty ring. 

Tell the stars in their places, that tremble with fright. 
When our sky-rockets blazed in their eyes, — 

There was nothing to fear, 'twas the sign of good 
faith— 
To our patriots past to the skies. 

O, that Night in November! transcribe it all tongues, 

Paint it in red, so all nations can see. 
How deep and impassioned the feelings of men, 

How determined we are to be free! 

Put it down in November, November the 5th, 

In the year of our Lord, 84 — 
Came the end of the reign of the purse and the sword, 

And the people shall rule evermore. 

Paint it red, as the sunset that burns in the west, 
Till it touches with glory the states by the sea, 

How the sons of the south, the east and the west, 
Shook the earth in one grand jubilee. 



A Book of Poems. 85 

Paint the man at his plow, and he of the quirte, 

As he rides through sunshine or rain, 
Or the men in the cotton fields, sun-burnt and bent. 

When they heard how— New York went for 
Blaine(?) 

Put this .on the canvas — the party must go! 

That builds on a bullet its tower of might 
In the annals of Nations, behold such are given 

To the owls and the bats and oblivion's night! 

Then run up the colors,— the red white and blue. 
And wave them again where our forefather's trod, 

While they laid the foundation of freedom and gave 
One hand to their children, the other to God. 



THE SIBYL'S DREAM CAME TRUE. 

ONCE upon a time there was a man-elate 
As one, a poet in his musing sings. 
Who felt the brooding of imperial wings. 
Set out to see the world and learn his fate; 
So, e'er he started on his world wide way, 

With cohorts in array, a noble band. 
He needs must on a shriveled sibyl wait, 
And learn the future from her mystic wand: 



86 Reullura, 

" Man of destiny, from conquering to conquest, 

Faring, thou shalt fare! this is my dream, 
Divinest honors shall be thine, thy name confessed, 

And kings and queens seek your esteem; 
And something stranger I will tell thee son, 

A truth the world hath never guessed. 
Thou art re-incarnated Napoleon one; 

The man of destiny, no more nor less. ' ' 

And so he went, this man of Mars , 

Junketting from capital to capital remote. 
Some times o'er land in palace cars. 

Some times in palaces o'er seas afloat. 
When he had won mete offerings from the world. 

He came where once a Montazuma sat in state; 
He smoked his cigarette and nursed his knee, 

And pondered on his own exalted fate. 

For lo! into his eager palm there poured, 

A precious store, a "matchless treasure, 
Which Pueblo's saints, in hand had kept 

For re-incarnated Montazuma' s pleasure. 
*' Now, doubtless" said he, " that sibyl Hed, 

Or else misread her book and mystic cards; 
I'm surely he, Pueblo's hope and pride, 

Foretold by their inspired bards. ' ' 



A Book of Poems. 87 

Soliloquized he, "well! and better still to come, 
My people call me hence with loud acclaim; 

I'll set all sails and hurry home; 

The nominating delegates will bear my name 

Before the next convention at Chicago; 
Appomattox will be the rallying cry. 

All less aspirants will be laid low. 

Thus buoyed and uplifted like a conquering king 

He came to Mobile, Alabama, on a day 
Soft as the tender footed Spring, 

Where a multitude, mostly colored, lay; 
Amid the throng was one, a colored wench, 

The proclamation had made free; 
A woman bent by servitude among the French, 

Called by her comrades, Aunty Lee. 

A whistle blows, bells ring, in roll the cars; 

A rush, a scramble, all file in amain 
Eager to see the mighty man of Mars, 

A conquering hero without scratch or stain. 
There, first and foremost of the scrambling throng, 
Aunt Lee, with finger lifted so that all might see. 
Cried "glory to God! suah as yous bohn, 
Dar sets my Jesus wid a stoab pipe hat on! " 



SS keullura, 



THE BIBLE CLASS WAS SCANDALIZED. 

5nnWAS Sunday morning; all out door 

1 And up and down ten thousand feet, 
Of saints and sinners on God's floor, 

Steped heaven-ward to the Mercy seat, 
While birds sang in the forest deep, 

Hallalujahs to all saving grace, 
Where soft winds rocked the baby-birds to sleep, 

And Spring unveiled the beauty of her face. 

'Twas Sunday morning all indoor; 

The bells of the first Methodist were ringing; 
In marched the Bible class — all deep in lore — 

Divine, just while the the choir was singing — 
"■ He dies, the friend of sinners dies! '\ 

Each bosom heaved with tender feeling; 
The Parson wiped his weeping eyes, — 

His heart before the cross was kneeling. 

With sacred modulations all could see 

The teacher read the word^ intoning nice, — 
* ' Thy kingdom come, dear Lord, remember me:" 
" To-day shalt thou be with me in Paradise : " 



A Book of Poems. ^9 

The answer of Love's dying grace, 

(By woe made more sublime, 
While darkness vailed Creation's face,) 

To one^ a sinner dying for his crime. 

Of preachers, teachers, students all 

The Bible class was just thirteen: 
Each one responded to the call 

When questioned what the text might mean; 
Each one aglow with pious passion, 

And saintly face, went on to tell, 
In good old orthodox fashion. 

How sinners, one excepted, go to — well/ 

One saint, more saintly than the rest, 

Spoke of Byron, Poe, Shelley and Sheridan — 
Great souls denied a heaven of rest, 

Outcasts from the face of God and man; 
And all the twelve agreed as one. 

That they were lost beyond redeeming grace; 
In vain for them God's loving son — 

Unvailed a Heavenly Father's face. 

Just then the teacher called ** Thirteen," 

Sons of the sons of God, how can you tell 
How deep God's love descends to save His own 

from hell; 
A low, sweet voiced woman answer gave — 



90 • Reulluia^ 

" I think God in compassion has in store, 
A refuge and a rest for martyred bards, 
Hounded through time's storm door. 
Without their passports or their cards. 

'* And O," — ^with eyes that seemed the heavens to 
scan, 
' ' I wonder if my dreams came true — 
Of Byron, Shelley, Poe and Sheridan, — 

He'll let me go their too! " 
Then looking round, smiling as the morn. 

She saw, — not much surprised,— 
On twelve dear faces signs of scorn; 
The Bible class was badly scandalized. 



A Book of Poems. 91 



w 



SATAN APPEARED ALSO. 

SATAN. 

HITHER away! have you fathomed the gloom 
That shadows the path 'twixt the cradle and 
tomb? 

ANSWER. 



There was never a vale so deep through the years, 
But lilies bloomed there I had watered with tears; 
And never a mountain so rugged and steep, 
But I climbed to its summet to pray and to weep; 
And we found even there — my lone heart and me, 
The light that shown over the glorified three. 

SATAN. 

Hark! do you hear the tumult and strife, 
Ascending for aye, from the low planes of life ? 

ANSWER. 

The din and confusion, the storm and unrest. 
Rises and falls o'er the calm of my breast. 
Like the waves of the sea, as they bellow and groan, 
Over rose-tinted shells on her bosom of stone. 



g± J^eu/ZurUy 



SATAN. 



Has your heart fixed on one ? You have much to re- 
gret, 
On the whole y it were easy your self to forget. 



ANSWER. 



I feel even now for the loss of all things, 
The touch and the thrill of infinite strings; 
Receive and give back, the grand antham of Love, 
From the low plane of life to the heavens above. 



SATAN. 



Still high and proud! has your heart ever spoken? 
E'er you enter Truth's temple, it too must be broken. 

ANSWER. 

Ye who gave the last turn at the steel. 
And smiled at signs of blood on the wheel. 
Know better than all the world beside. 
How my heart quivered the day it died. 

SATAN. 

There's Death! 

ANSWER. 

I'll tell you; I've seen him each day. 
From the portals of life to the end of the way; 



A Book of Poems. 93 

Up the clear heights of triumph and fame, 

Or down in the valley of anguish and shame; 

And the one who never deserted or lied, 

Was Death with his arrow pressed close to my side. 



A DISGUSTED PATRIOT. 

LAGGING, storm beaten and astray, 
A soldier ploded on his way; 
The mud was deep; his comrades all 
Gone far beyond his bugle call; 
So, as he mused the fire burned. 
Soliloquised he as he turned 
From bad to worse, if that might be, 
''What's glory to the loiks ev me 
A lonely thramp through Tennessee; 
Be dad! an oil niver love anither Counthrey!" 



94 Reullura, 



TWO REASONS. 

ALL travel worn, war scarred and 'lorn, 
Two soldiers waited for the morn; 
One blanket drawn above the two, 
Shut out the heavy, falling dew; 
They sleepless lay there side by side, 
And wondered that they had not died, 
When half their comrades swept away, 
Lay where they fell but yesterday. 

No food had they, not e'en hardtack. 
Nor bacon in the haver-sack; 
And while they watched the stars arise, 
And saw the moon slip down the skies. 
They talked of war, and what may be. 
If once the North could conquer Lee. 
A mockingbird the silence broke, 
And then some tender memories woke. 

Then Manscal asked, with glistening tear, 
* * Comrade, why did you volunteer ? ' ' 
* ' I — I had no kith, no kin, no wife, 
And so I offered up my life. 
My home, my country to save. 
Maybe to fill a soldier's grave. 
Now, why did you stake your life ? " 
" I, — came away because I had a wife. 



A Book of Poems. 95 



BEAUTIFUL STAR. 
l' envoy. 

AMID the constellations take thy place; 
Not as meteors that burn awhile, then pale, 
Nor that strange phantom of the night 
That makes the Nations quale, 
No star, but an illumined thing, 
That flaps the heavens with lurid wing, 
Precursor of war, want and pain. 
And ship-wrecks on the stormy main. 
Nay, through the nights of Time, anear or far. 
Be thou to all lone hearts a promise star 
That some time, when the worst is told. 
The flower of hope will show its heart of gold. 



